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Mosaic
Gagus Literary, and it Moagayine
2020
The Hor, of Orgs
According to Greek mythology, Argus was a giant with one hundred
eyes. While some of his eyes “slept,” he kept watch with the others.
Hermes lulled Argus to sleep with his magic lyre and slew him with a
stone. Upon finding the dead Argus, Hera, queen of the Gods, placed
his eyes in the tail of a peacock. The cover of Argus traditionally rep-
resents this ancient legend handed down to us by the Greeks. The
title was chosen to represent the different views and opinions of
readers as though each perspective were an eye of the peacock.
EdKorvial He aff
Allie Atkinson Editor-in-Chief
Lessie Walters Design Editor
Paige Parks Copy Editor
Emeri Manasco Assistant Editor
Macala Broussard Junior Editor
Alejandro Dager Junior Editor
Krista Hanson Junior Editor
McKenzie Seastrunk Junior Editor
Uchnow bedgrnerAs
Every year, Argue serves as a creative outlet for students
to express their thoughts, passions, and talent. Under Student
Media and more specifically, the English Department, our art
and literary magazine has been operating since its establish-
ment in 1976. Without the students, our organization would
not have lasted 44 years, so thank you to those who have sub-
mitted their self-created art, photographs, and writing. Next,
| would like to express my gratitude towards my staff mem-
bers, each of whom has played a crucial part of the overall
running of Argue. To our faculty advisor, Dr. Rebecca Macijeski,
| greatly appreciate your gentle guidance and constructive ad-
vice throughout this process. A warm thanks to the former Ed-
itor-in-Chief, Katie Rayburn who has always happily answered
my questions and offered direction. A special thank you to our
judges: Jacob Hammer and Daniel Hoefler (co-judges, poetry),
Erin Lillo (prose), Anna Macijeski (fine art), and Lene Gary (pho-
tography) — all of whom have been critical in determining our
winners. Last but not least, thank you to the person reading
this right now because your enthusiasm for literature and art
creates a space for us to keep producing these editions.
Editor 2 Wee
Emotions often color our thoughts and actions. Feelings
can leak into other aspects of our life and have the potential
to change how we see that person, event, or situation. But col-
or is good for soul because it reminds us of the diversity that
is the human condition. There is a line separating hatred and
animosity, sadness and devastation, happiness and euphoria
that must be acknowledged. The black outlining the shapes
represents a silver lining, obscured by emotional turmoil but
buried just below, so once the weight of your emotions Lifts,
everything comes together in hindsight. It is only when we step
back that we see the full picture, a mosaic of pieces comes to-
gether, and we start to feel whole. In case no one has told you
this, it is okay to get to know yourself in parts, for each reflect a
side of you, a different beam of color on the spectrum, a differ-
ent shade of emotion.
The theme for this edition came to me as | was exploring
the advice of one of my mentors and the former Editor-in-Chief
of Argue, Katie Rayburn who explained how the theme should
be broad enough for creative freedom but specific to you.
Through this line of advice, | came up with “Mosaic”. As a psy-
chology major and someone who finds interest in the com-
plexity of humans, mosaic was on-brand for me. The intricacies
of how humans think, feel, and behave can be reflected in the
fragments that make up a mosaic. With the theme “Mosaic” in
mind, my aim is for submissions to reflect the fragmentation of
our human nature and the role of hindsight in seeing the big
picture, for it is when we get to know these small parts of us
that we begin to truly understand the whole.
Corde CoA Winner
Poel:
1st place - little dandelion / Krista Hanson
2nd place - Aortic Dissection 7 Catelyn Errington
3rd place - Potion: Drink Me! 7 Allie Atkinson
Pose:
1st place - The Things They Taught 7 Macala Broussard
2nd place - Holding onto Shattered Memories / Melissa Taylor
3rd place - Clothespin / Ruben Smith
Photography:
1st place - Grow / Olivia Slayter
2nd place - French Quarter 7 Sean McGraw
3rd place - Gaudi's Mosaic / Madison Szekely
tine Apt
1st place - A Shattered Mirror's Reflection 7 Layla Easley
2nd place - Plant design 7 Emily Dawson
3rd place - Roller Skates / Tifphany McClinton
Table of Corde ends
Posy
Me and You, We
Purple Heart
Veins of Gold
Inner Thoughts and...
ForA
The Limitations of Wax
Your Poetry
Atlas Shrugged
Dumbshow
Broken Glass
| Am The Elephant
Specimen
Recover
Potion: Drink Me!
your car smells like you...
Peaches and Lemons
The Islanders Falling off...
Window Shopping
Aortic Dissection
Fragments, Reborn
Forgetting (To Remember)
Allie Atkinson
Mack Lacy
Evander McQuilling
Trinity Velazquez
Garrett Ambrose
Garrett Ambrose
Catelyn Errington
Garrett Ambrose
Catelyn Errington
Jada Boyd
Catelyn Errington
Chloe Blank
Myjoycia Cezar
Allie Atkinson
Kirsten Sonnier
Amira Moussa
Ruben Smith
Chloe Blank
Catelyn Errington
Carly Chandler
Chelsea Beasley
Facade
A Fickle Fire
Marilyn Brooks
Allie Atkinson
12
16
17
19
21
24
26
29
31
33
35
37
40
42
44
46
48
50
53
55
Table of CorterAr (Cord. )
Portrait of Expression
little dandelion
Potential
Her
Garden Bench
A Call to Art
iam beauty
What If?
weaving colors
Muse
untitled
Piece by Broken Piece
Prose
Where | Should Have...
Loss is Loss
An Old Man and His Muse
Bodies of Water
The Game Warden
Holding onto Shattered...
Clothespin
Pick Me
Macala Broussard
Krista Hanson
Myjoycia Cezar
Kathleen Hilliard
Krista Hanson
Myjoycia Cezar
Kristina Simon
Myjoycia Cezar
Kristina Simon
Allie Atkinson
Kathleen Hilliard
Emeri Manasco
Rhiannon Lee
Alexus McDonald
Savannah Thompson
Cheramie Kravitz
Hannah Worley
Melissa Taylor
Ruben Smith
Caleb Howell
56
58
62
64
66
68
70
pal
72
75
76
78
84
88
93
96
99
103
106
114
Table of CorterAr 4 Cord. )
The Things They Taught Macala Broussard 118
Cthulu Rises from the... Ruben Smith 123
Photography
Grow Olivia Slayter 127
French Quarter Sean McGraw 128
Guadi's Mosaic Madison Szekely 129
fine Avie
A Shattered Mirror's... Layla Easley 131
Plant Design Emily Dawson 132
Roller Skates Tifphany McClinton 133
Preface
The poem you see to the right is by Shay Hope Church, the
winner of a contest to be featured in Argue. This opportunity
was presented to students through a creative writing summer
camp held on campus for going on three years. The aim is to
assist those between 10 to 17 years old in expressing them-
selves through a variety of creative genres such as poetry and
short stories. The two-week long camp focuses on the impor-
tance of utilizing feedback and criticism to improve one's piece
and is geared towards helping students discover their style of
writing. Shay Hope Church is a 10th grader from Natchitoches
Central High School who states her poem “takes you home,
whether you're already there or still looking for it.”
An Ocoan Full of Fars
Pray Church
Scents of lavender prickle the air,
lost in a forgotten world
The trees climb above the clouds
Freer than the salt in the ocean.
Homesick from a place that doesn't exist
Lost in daydreams; forgotten in nightthinking
A nostalgic longing to be near again,
A blank space.
The overwhelming feeling of wanderlust
To get lost in space, lose track of time
and escape reality.
Pursue the longing need to cover up with a blanket of stars
and lose yourself in the wind.
To kiss the moon goodnight
and hug the sun too.
never know what to expect little one,
this journey is all for you.
Agee
Me and You, We
Mle Atkingon
My troubles travel with the smoke
Thin, wispy, and trailing behind me.
| almost relinquished all hope,
Nowadays, I'm glancing less at the past behind me.
It took a while for me to find me
People are kaleidoscopes, colors bleeding onto the eye
Some bright, blinding, staining anything in contact,
Others more muted, blended, taking comfort in
Being one busy body among the bustle of people—
We are mosaics.
It becomes hard to distinguish between the colors and cracks.
No matter how you piece the fragments together,
A prism of colors, shades of emotion, dynamically You.
Mosaic
Growth occurs in all directions
Outwards, inwards... even if the shards
Don't quite fit like they used to
Because of dull edges and unfamiliar scratches,
In the morning, you are the warming glow people call sunrise
And when the night brings in the dark, you are your shadows
too
Still the moonlight gleams in a way that makes you want to
try again
Because you are inexplicably, indescribably You.
Argue
Purple tleart
Mfack, Ley
The walls of a hospital room are no longer painted in white
fluorescence,
But his hands shake just the same.
It's his first day sitting up,
Five days of forced reclination, and
The stutter of Life is accentuated by the click of injected
morphine.
The forced breathing remains consistent.
Sometimes he tries to speak:
Lips pursed, out, in, out, twisted against gums, tongue, the
roof of his maw,
Mosaic
but the air chokes in his throat;
His words dissipate like
wisps of wind-swept steam
almost immediately after he hisses them out.
His eyes are blank, silver encroaching upon brown,
And | always thought that the silver lining was supposed to
be a Good Thing,
But he can barely see Me,
And he can't hear Me, either.
His heart jolts in his chest.
| count them by the seconds.
For five seconds, the pulse sits stagnant at 88.
Argue
On the sixth, it jumps to 122 and he wheezes,
claws clutching the arms of the leather recliner, and
His shoulders jostle because there's nothing else to do
but grab his Life by the throat and hang on, and
Death grows impatient with each defibrillation.
He doesn't know what to do with a wasted vessel.
He sits and waits and that's all he does and can do.
“This is what | was afraid of,” he says,
“I'm going to die here,” he says,
and | say nothing outside of “I'm sorry”
and He doesn't respond.
His Purple Heart sits on my dresser, collecting dust,
His Red Heart doesn't pump correctly,
And They are one in the same.
Theres tope Past Goief and Teauna
Kailyn Frederick
Argue
Veing of Gold
There are different ways
Of dealing with broken hearts
Pottery.
Some throw it away,
Tired of shards and cuts
Tired of the memory
Of being shattered.
Some hide it away,
Dark corners,
Dark drawers,
Not willing to part,
But not willing to remember.
Mosaic
Some fix the break,
Using glue to piece it back together,
Trying to hide the cracks,
But always knowing
That faint line they tried to erase.
But there are some
Who take what has been broken
And fix it with gold.
Kintsugi
Golden Joinery
Kintsukuroi
Golden Repair
Repairing a break
With lacquer and gold
Argue
Silver and platinum,
Showing the breaks
As the history of the object.
To take what was beautiful before
And to make it beautiful again.
This is the beauty
Of these people
Of this craft.
To take something
That would be thrown aside
And make it a work of art.
So when | give my broken pieces to you
Once whole and since shattered,
| pray that you are the last,
70
The one to find the beauty in the breaks,
And fill in the spaces with the gold of your love
Sr MELEE: gest ERERSENE By
q
eauad WEzEa eae Late
me) RAOEE
1
Argue
Inner Toughif and Otter Noler T Hare Yared. or My
Phone
my ge
My heart is worth infinite honest love.
| will always offer the kind of love that is pure and uncondi-
tional, is that a bad thing?
In order to fall back in love with my life, | have to let go of cer-
tain things that I'm wasting my
precious energy on.
| really need to learn when I'm being taken advantage of and
when to walk away from
people who aren't appreciating me.
Trinity, Know when to walk away. You're getting yourself in
too deep.
You stop attracting certain people when you heal the parts of
you that once needed them.
Let them get a tree without you.
Remember to buy bread and cinnamon roll oatmeal.
12
13
Mosaic
Stop stressing, don't think about it.
But fundamentally, you have the same problem: you don't
know how to make someone other
than yourself a priority.
| didn't realize that falling in love with you, meant falling out
of love with myself.
Love that we cannot have is the one that lasts the longest,
hurts the deepest, and feels the
strongest.
My head and heart are constantly at odds. | am always fight-
ing between what | feel and what |
know is reality.
How am | falling in love with you while my heart feels like it is
breaking?
Stop telling parents things, just keep everything to yourself.
Maybe it is time | harden my heart. It might do me some good.
God, | am so glad this is all over. It’s over, life can be peaceful
again. No more drama.
Argue
Everything is gonna be okay, | can get through this.
Don't buy the toothpaste that tastes like washed-out mint.
Womans Face
Tphany MeChnten
‘e)
5
Mosaic
for A
Gavrelt Ambroge
If your past has held hardships
Fraught struggles and choking breaths
| wish for your future to be kind
| would like for time to be gentle
If | could, | would smooth your past
Press gentle fingers to your history book
Rewrite every page to suit you
But that would change yew, and | adore you
If there is anyone in this world who deserves
A soft epilogue, an easy descent
Itis you
Glorious, gorgeous you
Argue
| would be Joan of Arc for you
| would tie your banner to my wrist
And use your name as a battle cry
Though you need no champion, and | am not much of one
Devotion is a strange thing
And my loyalty may waver some day
But for now
(and ever, in any capacity)
You have me.
Endlessly.
Ardently.
You have me.
16
17
Mosaic
the Limitattone of Wax
Garret Ambrose
lam tired of breaking my own heart
Hopes and dreams pinned above my head
As Icarus once looked to the sun
If only that the last thing he saw before he sank to the sea
Was the bright, blue sky
lama hunter eyeing my own silhouette
Through the scope of a rifle of my own imagining
Self-sabotage
In an overly complicated metaphor
And my hands do not tremble as | pull the trigger
If lwere a wiser, better man
| would admit to myself that self-hatred
Is the gasoline to fuel my engine
Argue
But instead | wind myself up and watch me go
Only to bring a hammer down
Scattering tin wreckage across my self-image
If | could learn
To run on ambition instead of frustration
| wonder how far into the sun | could fly
Reaching and grasping the unattainable goal
Or if the wax wings affixed to my spine
Would snap me in half like kindling
A memorial of man’s hubris
A parable for the limitations of wax.
18
19
Mosaic
Jour Feely
Catelyn Evringlen
| listen for meter in your speech
And metaphor, like hard candy,
Sitting beneath your tongue.
You are poetry to me.
What should poetry be,
Besides the warmth in your eyes
Or the calluses upon your palm?
They tell the story much better than |,
ILluminated only by fluorescent light
And the thought of you
You are a simile—like or as
The universe—impossibly consequential,
Ever-present, enveloping, labyrinthine.
And | am just the exclamation point,
Emphasizing all that you are, all that | wish to be
Age
| have spent hours on your analysis,
Studying your diction and your themes,
Feeling your mood and tone,
But | cannot assert your meaning to me
| have read each line a thousand times,
Only to draw a million different conclusions
Perhaps this is what your poetry means to say:
You are everything to be lost and gained,
You are everything to be seen and heard,
You are everything to be near and far,
But beyond your everything-ness?
There lies a soul too infinite to be known
20
2
Mosaic
Alar Sur
Gavrel i
Atlas bore the weight of the world
Pressed his hands to the seas
Cried effort into the mighty deserts
Lifted mountains upon his shoulders
The sky above his head
|, thousands of years later, see a statue
Aman, brass globe upon his back
Stoic acceptance on his face
And my heart catches in my chest
For surely this man must be divine
| lift a miniscule world upon my back
A population of one
Which is very hard to keep track of
Age
lam in charge of shaky, ink-stained fingers
And really quite terrible teeth
Chewed up glasses
A candy red my mother hates
The scars of a tendency which has marked me
A brain that does not process numbers
A heart that trods steadily along
lam the master of a million thousand aspects
In the minutiae of a single citizen
Whom | really can't say | like
Whom | am certain
| do not love
But it is my burden to bear
A planet to curl my spine under
ZZ
23
Mosaic
And to ask me to surrender what pains me
Would be to ask me to kill myself
So | will Keep going steadily onward
Regal under that crushing brass globe
Carrying it on into the breathless future
Until one day the weight is a crown
And to bear myself is no burden
Argue
Durmbshew
Calelyr Evvinglen
The curtain’s up, it's showtime!
The merry masquerade has commenced--
Complete with unconquered complacency,
Which knows no bounds from stage to crowd
You cannot sweat the makeup off once it's been applied
And you cannot leave your seat until intermission.
Your hands tremble, holding the playbill,
It's soaked through with sweat and doubt
Though the words inside advertise a comedy,
The lurching in your gut implies tragedy.
The actors laugh on stage, they hug and they kiss,
But the tears running down their painted cheeks
Shimmer, solemnly, in the shining stage lights.
Cease your pretending, your pretentious play-acting!
Don't you know what's at stake?
Vg
25
Mosaic
If you make a funny face, it'll freeze like that
And if you tella lie, you can't take it back
Doesn't your costume itch?
Isn't your corset laced too tight?
Where is it that you've drawn the line?
Or has it blurred too much, beyond distinction?
Can you discern fact from fiction?
Or have you been cemented into an Elizabethan production,
An infernal hell of your own design,
And when it finally descends into ember and ash,
Do you intend to let your patrons burn with you?
Argue
broken Glass
Jide gd
lam glass
Cool and smooth on the surface
Shining and gleaming brighter than a solar flare
Glass is fragile, it should be protected with casing
But this piece of glass is on its own now
One fracture and everything shatters
Rocks as heavy as solid concrete and made of fears pile on
top of me
| can handle 10 rocks, | can handle 50
But the pressure of 1,000 rocks on one slim, small piece of
glass can be too much
to bear
Tiny, ugly, black cracks in the surface
Appear
Faint crunching sounds can be heard
26
27
Mosaic
If you listen closely
Crying out for help
The cracks get bigger, making the surface
Rough with their jagged lines all the way
through my fingers and toes
My once flawless face is reduced to slabs
of crystal
People tell me don't break
They tell me to hide the fractures
| break anyway
Sharp, broken pieces of glass scatter on the cold, hard floor
They try to put the pieces back together
They try to restore it to the perfect,
smooth glass they want it to be
Argue
But no matter how many times they try to fix it on the surface
The glass will always be broken
26
29
Mosaic
T Am The Elephant
Calelyn Envinglen
lam the elephant
In the middle of the room.
You wouldn't dare say it
But | know the words are there,
Precariously perched,
On the tip of your tongue,
Seconds away from dropping
Like the atom bomb.
A last resort for some,
But others are eager to pull the trigger
And say the unthinkable,
But how unthinkable is it really?
| see the looks, the eyes, the stares
Peeling back my layers.
Does she know?
Argue
She does.
A hand on my arm is a threat
To the secret beneath my skin.
No, please don't touch me there
You're not supposed to know.
And please don't feed me lies
| can't stomach them anymore.
Your words cannot straighten a funhouse mirror
Nor can they tighten the buckle of my belt
Tell me, which number on the scale
Determines how much I'm worth?
Do | add or subtract my dress size?
Was that one X or three?
| suppose I'll take my pills and teas
And spend my days in shapewear
Begging for the love they told me | don't deserve.
30
Mosaic
Srecimen
Chlee Blank
What defines me won't define anyone else
So | guess that's why it’s so hard to see through
This murky water from the bottom of a lake
| guess that’s why living with myself
Is a pill | must take and
| guess that's why my family looks at me like an hourglass
That's just been given a shake
Like my time is running out
Like I'm some temporary thing
Like I'm a pest that needs to be stomped
| guess that’s why when | look at my face
| get confused because the surface of who | am
Makes much more sense than the algae
| guess that’s why when my clothes don't fit again and again
| feel better because at least something is changing
37
Argue
At least something notices I'm becoming anything at all
At least something can take part in my process of being
At least something doesn't yell at me for being too quiet
| guess it’s better to define myself as water
Or anything moving because
I'm alone
So, | guess that’s why the bottom of a murky lake
Is much more appealing
Than bobbing to the top and seeing
Nothing
32
33
Mosaic
Kocovor
Do you ever think about the things that have caused you to
get where you are?
The turning points, the well-taken advices, the breakdowns?
They snowball into one mass making you appreciate the
struggles you have gone through.
The tears... were worth it.
The stress... was worth it.
The feeling of drowning under multitudes of problems
With no one to offer the life jacket of a solution, somehow...
was worth it.
And it all added up.
The lessons were learned.
But there is something more.
Now, what is the next step?
Angue
How do | recover?
Recover from the negative, angry thoughts that fueled me
for so long
And gwow..
Because if there was no growth, what was it for?
| must grow and surpass.
It is the only thing left to do.
It will be taxing,
But it will be worth it.
And soon, maybe | will realize... Zam worth it.
BF
35
Mosaic
Petter: Drink Mel 8” place
Mle Atkingon
| get drunk off what ifs
And drink down to the last drop of dreams,
But | become exhausted and sleep again
While a wide-awake world passes by me.
| don't know why it seems
| was cursed to never be a part of both worlds.
One is tugging, begging me upon the shore
As waves lap against the grains, the bits of memories
Sprinkled here just to be unsettled when | come back...
| always come back.
My knees kiss the sand, | exhale a shaky breath
Salt rattles in my lungs, sand seeps between my fingers
As | try to grasp what was never mine
This sand does not belong to me
These memories no longer do anything for me
So | turn them over to the shore.
36
37
Mosaic
your car smell like you bul U algo kind of smelle like
diet
an unforeseen departure
ripped away like flowers from a garden
only for them to rot on a forgotten windowsill
this is simply a new incarnation of a tale as old as time
instead of a hermit-turned-husband
all you are left with are moths where your heart should be
a coffin of distance separates you from the ones you love
this one is just the final nail to seal it shut
somehow worse than the ultimate end
you know they are somewhere, existing where you are not
a selfish notion, but nonetheless
Argue
imagine a grand reunion
filled with golden warmth and beaming joy
a time where everything will fall back into place
and the static in your mind becomes clear again
refrain from harboring trivial sentiments
for out of these feelings, resentment emerges
poisoning the image of the very person you mourn
turning your head against a fabricated enemy
surging from a place deep in your heart
spreading a current of darkness where there once was light
the universe is your opposition
sorrow its devoted companion
time is your only solace
smoothing out the sharp edges of your pain
38
until it can finally be grasped and hurled far away
making ripples in a pond of stagnant memories
Fnnley Plaster
39
Angue
Poacher and Lemeng
Amiva, Mowesa
| was a lemon,
Sour and bitter
She was a peach,
Warm and sweet,
| was bright and fun at first,
She fell in love and | strung her along,
She fell hard,
| did too,
But lemons don't bruise,
Like peaches do,
40
41
She was warm,
| was sour,
She didn't care,
For she loved me better.
Mosaic
Angus
The Itlandere Falling off the Edge of the Werld and No
One Caring
Kuberv Gmiltc
all claws that dig deep into the marsh,
the white man came with his oil drills, his tankers, his digging
machines,
that rusty metal biting a hole in the lush green.
all destruction is elemental and natural,
they dug deep channels for no fish to swim, except their
pipes of sludge,
chaotic clusters of forgotten freshwater pools.
all swirling gray masses that move fast,
the white man came to decimate the land with as much force
as hurricanes,
diluted orange water and wishful prayers.
all fingers scraping up the world below,
they shaped land with their own hands, their own devices of
energy and mass,
ar
43
Mosaic
not even the gods would be proud of the work.
all decaying houses on stilts silently rest,
the white man came to move the people who remained to a
new plot of land,
yet nothing moves at night except the murky water.
these are the native people,
humble homes of togetherness and shadows and boards,
yet they are threatened by man-made nature.
they should cling to the vines that they have climbed for so
long,
feel the tide against their coarse, dry skin,
and know that their land is stolen away
by anything
that walks.
Chlee Blank
Today | don't know but tomorrow
I'll find a chance to understand how
Or why it is when | dance in this room
With no one to watch and nothing to lose
| feel infinitely free
This need to breathe deeply
An undeniable language between me
And my aching feet
| hope for a day when someone sees
Through the window out by the beach
That they feel just as carefree
Whether or not they laugh at me
“ef
45
Mosaic
| wonder if maybe that day
Or perhaps that night, when | walk away
From that window they see
Where they watch me pretend to be free
| wonder if maybe the person
Would remember that | do it for them
That | dance to make them smile
| wonder if they'll dance with me
Angue
Aortic Dissection 2 rave
Calelyn Evvinglen
| paint my hands in glue,
Tracing the divets and whorls
With thin layers,
Sticky, milky lines.
| watch it dry, slowly.
The white fades clear
And gives my fingertips
A dull sheen.
Nails beneath the edge,
Anxious to pull, to peel,
To tear away the film
Veiling my blushing palm
Like a band-aid.
But, the funny thing about
A band-aid is that
46
sud
Mosaic
Even though it covers
And hides the hurt
It does not dull the pain.
Perhaps, if | sink my heart in glue,
And let it dry clear,
|can rip it off,
And maybe,
The ache will come with it
And | will wrap it in tissue
And toss it in the trash.
But camouflage is not a cure
Nor is heartbreak a gash
That can be sewn shut
And slathered with ointment
So that it won't leave a scar.
Agee
Fragmenlf, Koborn
Carly Chandler
Shards of me
Strewn ‘round the room
Pick myself up and hide it away
Broken and lost and fragmented
FPugments
Fragments of what | was,
Who | used to be
A pile of glass,
of personality
Shards of a smile
Crack across my face
All the pieces | hide away
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49
Mosaic
Chip away at what | was
Rebour
A new day, a new life
Asmile made new
Fragments pieced together,
Me, reborn, a mosaic of me
se a
Chelrea Beasley
Mustard oozing out
Making that sound kids laugh at
Drip
Drip
Dropping onto the bread
Preparing sandwiches
You're reminded of her
Dancing in the summer rain
Drip
Drip
Dropping into your life
With suddenness and extreme that you never could have
prepared for
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Mosaic
Fixing two glasses of sprite,
Because it is her favorite and therefore yours as well
Drip
Drip
Dropping into the cups
But mostly onto the floor
Clear as day you see her
Laughing as you try to clean up and somehow make it worse
Tears squeezing between the smile lines
Drip
Drip
Dropping into open hands
Staring at the plates and glasses and silverware
Not quite sure what to do when she is gone
Argue
And the table is just for you
a2
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Mosaic
Facade
Marilyn Brocke
It's easy to go with the crowd, to fit in
To force yourself to conform to the norm
It's harder to tread alone
To go along to the beat of your own drum
To let go of what is expected of you and become the best
you
| know because I'm one of you
I'm the one who sits alone
I'm the one who listens to the beat of my own drum
Sometimes that beat is a classical song
Making me feel wrong from blasting a wordless song
Looking at me like | was wrong
But if only you knew, how it felt to be free
Living life to make yourself happy
Thinking for yourself and never letting anyone else gas you
Argue
up or put you down
Creating your own crown
Never making yourself one of the crowd that makes fun of
others—
Behind their backs but never to their face
They wait until you walk away and erase you from their case
Then find someone else to fit into your place
Little did you know, you'd be the one pleading your case
Playing face and trying to create a facade that you were just
like the rest
Erasing your individuality so that you can start blaring things
with the best
Putting down the rest and pretending that all along you were
the best
So, you put on a facade and pray to God
ot
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Mosaic
A Fickle Fire
Mle Atkingon
Like the flicker of a flame, you were gone.
I'm not one to deny responsibility
| know | sparked your fire,
But | liked your inviting glow.
When | felt what it was like to get burned
Your fiery passion was no longer charming
And just as quick, your absence hit me.
Open palms, | try to find my way through the night
For a light always cuts clear into the darkness
Everything feels like empty space since you left
| miss your ember, ever near, kissing me with warmth
A fire can be re-lit, but one's heart is a fickle thing,
The way crackling wood leaves ashes in its wake
Agee
Portrait of Expression
Macala, Brougsard
This canvas is smooth to the touch
Only roughened by the severity of my strokes
Red from my love
Blue from my sadness
Purple from my pain
| find controlin how | express my feelings
This conduit will say more than | ever could
Through writing
Through sound
Through brushstrokes
This paper knows more about me than anyone who feels
they know all
This canvas is my novel
It is my mouthpiece
Itis my art
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Mosaic
It is me
| paint myself as who | wish | could be
The Dancer
Amira Mourga
Dt
Angue
litle dandelion Polaco
Krigla Hanger
Mother [ver] : bung up Ca child) with core and affection.
Under my mama's bed sat treasure boxes,
full of things I'll never understand.
Her small television played the cooking channel,
recipes | promised I'd remember, but always forgot by morn-
ing.
Her backyard was a forest of magical plants;
a stone path led me home every time.
To a sunroom that made watching the rain easy.
| met bees in her front yard and was told,
“don't chase them, honey.”
But they were my first friends.
A woman | never saw as anything less than beautiful.
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| was six years old.
My mama took us to Home Depot,
| picked out my own little plant:
a single dandelion in a purple pot.
They say dandelions are weeds.
Not meant to be watered or cared for.
But | loved my dandelion.
That summer,
she promised
to take care of my flower.
The next summer she was gone.
| was nine years old.
Christmas Eve in a motel room.
| opened presents,
Argue
too young to even understand my own emotions.
| was just happy she came.
Christmas: | cried as she drove away.
Three states and a million miles.
Before she left,
she promised
to come back.
| haven't seen her since.
Hindsight is 20/20 and | am no longer blind.
But | am seventeen,
looking in the mirror to see a carbon copy of my mama.
A forest sits in my backyard,
yet | still dream of that dandelion.
6O
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Mosaic
A real roof sits above my head,
but | still go back to nights under a tin roof, making music with
the clouds.
lam seventeen but,
sometimes,
I'm stilljust six years old.
Not yet sure what's the difference between my mama and a
mother.
Argue
Potential
We, as humans, have the power to change.
We all have the opportunity to reinvent,
But do we allow ourselves?
For days, months, years,
We go in circles: around different problems, around different
people.
We adhere to such a pattern that we create an orbit.
Systematic yet ever-capable of changing,
We circle around planets and stars of a unique solar system
that only wants to teach us.
And around we go,
Hoping and striving to change course until we finally do.
Somehow, throughout our journey, we still hold potential.
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Mosaic
Potential to change how we think and how we travel through
this universe.
The job, then, lies in orbit
Because there is a choice to make: to shift course or stay the
same.
Given the opportunity,
Will you let yourself grow?
Working to improve,
What will you accomplish?
With the capacity and potential to change,
Will you?
Auger
top
Kattileen Hilliard
It's nights like these
Where we are in the same car, and the street lights
Guide me like a map across her body
A face shrouded in shadow
Illuminated to show soft lips smiling at something someone
said
Eyes glinting a green like the emerald ocean that calls to me
The waters wetting my ankles and sinking me into that gritty
sand, tugging me into a world of emotions too strong to de-
scribe in one
Word
Her eyes promise me that like the ocean she'll stay for a while
Lights continue to discover more
A t-shirt that's worn and faded, contrasting coffee-milk skin
that's lit by a yellow light
Too yellow to be the sun,
OT
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Mosaic
But more so the yellowing of an old book that’s curled up with
stories
And they hold a mystery in the faded ink that makes me never
want to stop exploring more
Guides me across jeans that barely hug each curve and angle,
Fading ever so insignificantly and
Everything is
Over with a worn blue sneaker that’s made its home nightly by
my bed, beautiful in their imperfection
The boundaries of my streetlight map stop and repeat once,
twice, three times across her
And | think and | wonder how lucky | am that God
Led me to this beautiful woman
Her.
Argue
Garden Bench
Krista Hanger
lam made of memories.
| remember them all
But to you, | am just there.
Just the background of your thoughts.
You come to me on a mosaic path.
Stones, building blocks to your memoir.
| see the flowers blooming and the birds learning to fly.
| see your first kiss and awkward photos before prom.
lam here as the grass is cut and the hedges are trimmed.
| was there when you wanted to experience nature.
| was there for that first weekend with mom after the divorce.
| was always here.
| will always be here.
With my chipping paint and giraffe-spotted tree.
| will see the flowers bloom and the leaves fall once again.
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| am just the background.
But, don't worry, | don't mind.
| will still be here.
| will See as she makes a promise to always be yours.
| will see as your kids become more and more like you.
| will still be here when your hair turns grey and your memories
fade away.
| will be here as a backdrop in the story of your life.
Angue
A Call te Art
Mgepen Coar
Away,
Pull us away.
From this complicated and demanding life.
Tell us a story.
Show us ... anew reality.
Let us into a world unknown.
For it is what helps this world continue,
And it is what we long for.
The narratives, parables, and allegories:
They gift us with truths.
And these truths inspire.
They take root, and produce forests
Of craft, creation, and love.
Art, we beg you,
Listen to our calling:
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Mosaic
Pull us away. Inspire us,
And we will create.
69
Agee
vam beauly
Krigtiiua Simon
art
is sprinkled on my face
in laugh lines
crooked teeth
and bushy brows
some are confused when they study me
they do not see why he treasures me
but some art
is not meant
for everyone
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What I?
What if?
What if it all comes crashing down?
All the time, work, and effort.
| spend all this time planning for the road that lies before me,
But what if | never get there?
What if the things | have are not what | need to succeed?
What if who | am is not what is wanted?
These thoughts, these questions:
They begin as doubts
And along the journey, they transform into fuel.
They ignite into a feeling that only strives for more:
More time, more work, more effort.
And the only viable option left is to at least attempt
Argue
Because there is no “what if"
If |do not even try.
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Mosaic
weaving colors
Kristina Sumer
my mind is spinning
twirling
into a woven tapestry of thoughts
the blankets of my past self used to be in dark colors
gray color palettes
and bland beginnings
but the tapestries made when my mind is on you
are full of vibrant colors
colors i did not know i could remember
now here iam
spinning webs more beautiful than a spider's silk
there you are
admiring the artwork and validating the colors i have chosen
Argue
your heart
has made my heart form masterpieces
that no one can comprehend
except us
Ut
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Mosaic
Muse
Mle Atkineon
My muse, my newfound love
| can forever get lost in
The folds and grooves of your mind,
For there is so much to know.
And how lovely it is
To get to know someone who knows oneself.
Well enough to pick and pry windows open
Of the dustiest of corners— filled
With what we rather ignore, not acknowledge, not admit
But you—you let the daylight in
And so you know yourself better than anyone else.
lam my own muse; | suggest you be your own, too.
Argue
untitled
Kattileor Hilliard
Breathing doesn't always feel good.
Sometimes it hurts and aches and makes me want to
scream.
| can't scream, though, because screaming takes air and
that hurts to breathe in.
It scares me sometimes how much | wish | couldn't.
How much the darkness that corrupted my smile made me
feel | shouldn't breathe.
This darkness forced from within me a writhing and feeble
mess of a girl.
Someone who apologized for anything that could be bad
Someone who pathetically curled her shoulders up in de-
fense
Someone who wanted to just stop the beat
beat
beating so the numbing pain is over.
The furious fires of blackened anger
And actions that left behind scars
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Mosaic
Burned and smothered me until
My lungs filled with smoke
And
It hurt to breathe.
| remember how it felt emerging from the ashes and smoke,
The soot covering my eyelashes and peppering the freckles
on my face.
| looked up and saw light,
Something of pure promise.
It wasn't angry, or chastising
It was soft and warm and gave me a smile.
Gentle hands swept the grime and muck of the writhing girl
from before,
Letting the dirt stain the ground below me.
This warmth and happiness let me soar
To be someone who could be herself shamelessly
Someone who knew love was okay to receive.
Someone who saw it was okay to love.
Breathing feels incredible now.
| want to breathe.
| want to run in sunlight and scream, begging air to fill my
lungs.
Argue
Peco by Brecker Proce
Emeri Managce
impact... Cracks immediately spreading across a hundred di-
rections.
Shattered... Falling in a million crumbled pieces all over the
floor of our hearts.
The breaking... \t's funny how life has a nef=s-fenny Way of break-
ing us at times,
In more pieces than we knew we were made of.
Yet, every crack revealing something deeper
Of our fragility, our resilience, our strength.
Every break revealing something new,
Something we didn't even know we had.
You see | find that, as with most things in this life,
It's not our strengths that need to be displayed,
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79
Mosaic
But our weaknesses.
For our weaknesses help create the backdrop for something
greater,
Something much greater than what we had in mind before
the breaking.
You see, the breaking breaks us free from the limitations of our
own expectations.
So many times, we have these certain expectations for our-
selves,
These goals, these standards, these specific plans we must
live up to.
Yet, they suddenly get wrecked by the bveaking..
By loss, heartache, change, doubt, disappointment, tragedy...
The breaking is anything that crushes the intent of your being
Into more fragments than you knew could ever exist.
Argue
The breaking is anything that challenges everything you
once knew to be true.
The breaking is uncomfortable, painful, difficult, messy, and
honestly, unbearable at times.
| know this far too well...
But, dear friend, what if | told you the breaking was necessauy?
What if | told you the breaking wasn't for your brokenness, as
much as it was for your beauty?
What if | told you that all of the good things you love about
your life—
Your color, vibrancy, perspective, and light—
Couldn't exist without the breaking?
What if | told you that it was the breaking that showcased
your beauty?
Your rough edges that outlined your image?
Your jaggedness that revealed your wholeness?
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Mosaic
What if | told you that somehow, all of the brokenness in your
life—
All of the things you wish were different,
All of your hurt, disappointment, confusion, shame, and un-
answered questions—
What if they all came together to create something beautiful,
Something extraordinary even...
More extraordinary than your expectations could have ever
dreamed of imagining?
What if | told you that you weren't broken, but that you were
whole?
And that you were only whole 4ecause of your brokenness.
Because all along the way, what you thought was the break-
ing, was actually the building.
The building of a mosaic. Piece by broken piece,
Argue
Building the mosaic of... you.
Constructing the mosaic of your heart, your mind, your char-
acter, your story, gewwself-
Your beautifully bwken self,
Piece by broken piece.
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Argue
Where I Should Hae Kroww
“So, you're going to South Korea now?"
| feel my mouth go dry, and | can't help but pick at the
ends of my denim sleeves.
“Only for a year,” | tell him, stumbling over my words. “|
mean, that’s how long a
contract would be for, so—"
“But why not Japan? You make more money there.” |
can tell from his voice that he's
trying to remain calm, but the tightening grip he has on the
steering wheel tells otherwise. But, | won't let his obvious ag-
gravation make me back down.
“Um... actually, no. Incorrect. You make more money in
Korea. No one ever goes there, so they pay more.” His eyes,
for once, remain on the road as he takes in my words. | purse
my lips, blatantly staring at him as the streetlights blink over
us, repeatedly casting blinking shadows over his face. “Does
that really annoy you?” | can't help but ask. | know the answer,
BF
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Mosaic
but | need to hear him say it. Like so many things, | just need
him to say a.
But, he falls silent. He just keeps driving, and | just keep
staring. The smell of cheap Chinese food floats off the both of
us as edgy alternative rock fills the air.
| don't know what this feeling is that bubbles up inside
of me. Defiant anger? Defensive aggravation? ALL! know is my
stomach is in knots, and I'm just... fed up. What is this? Why
is he so mad? | finally look out the window, watch as we skirt
along the edge of the Red River. Lights from the casino boats
twinkle along the black surface, resembling the stars that are
impossible to see due to all the light pollution. A few strag-
glers walk along Clyde Fant Parkway, out to practice their dif-
ferent vices. | Suppose we all are out here to do things not
good for us...
When he finally takes in a breath, my head snaps back
around to face him.
“You should go to Japan,” he states simply, as if that’s the
end of it. “| can follow you there. | could just stay with my un-
cle there... | can't follow you to Korea." That feeling inside me
Argue
sinks, pierced through by that pitiful little whine in his voice |
had grown to adore throughout
high school.
“Even if | go to Korea,” | try to say, consoling him lame-
ly, “it's a long way away. | still need to graduate, and plus!
Its only an hour's flight. You could still live in Japan, and we
could, | don't know, fly to see each other? It'd be better than
you staying here and me being there.”
It's probably wishful thinking, but | think | see him ease
a bit. His thin shoulders relax against the back of his seat, and
his grip on the steering wheel slackens. | smile, glad | could
help alleviate the situation, if even just a little bit. | still wonder
why it had mattered so much to him, why wed been talking
about this for at least four songs now. | begin to glance out
the window again, but he asks me where he needs to turn
off for the new coffee shop we're going to try. | tell him to not
worry, to trust me and my impeccable direction-giving.
“You'd have us driving into the river if | do that,” he says,
his dry laughter weaving through his words and making me
smile so wide. | always like when he laughs, when he gives
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Mosaic
me that toothy grin, even if it's at my own expense.
“No, that’s gews directions,” | tease back, shifting in the
seat until I'm facing him fully. “Yew’te the one with a death wish
here, not me.”
He makes some snide remark about my driving, how
anyone getting in the car with me behind the wheel is the one
with a definite death wish, and | pretend to get mad, but I'm not
really. We both know that. It’s just part of our thing.
Our stupid, stupid, unsaid thing.
Argue
Lose ip Lose
Motug McDonald
In the heart of New Orleans, it seemed as if you had
been pitched into another time.
Bricks lined the streets, reminiscent of the carriages
that horses once pulled through them. The buildings stood
tall and proud, their paint chipped and faded. The iron-
wrought gates that surrounded many were coated in rust.
Homeless children sprinted through the streets, laugh-
ing and shoving one another as they searched for their next
meals. Those that had family were pulled closer, warned not
to stray too far lest they be snatched from their mother's lov-
ing arms.
Tourists from all over the country found themselves
in the French Quarter, admiring the ageless art and timeless
cuisine. Crawfish, gumbo, jambalaya—to a northerner, it was
exquisite. The thrill of cracking open a mudbug was an ad-
venture. The indescribable taste of gumbo filled them with
an emotion just as inexplicable.
The natives of New Orleans boasted, every corner
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Mosaic
claiming that they had the best gumbo in the city. Street per-
formers showed off their tricks much to the amazement of
those who had traveled.
At night, the city became alive. Skyscrapers touched
the sky, their lights rivaling the stars themselves. The yellow
warmth of streetlamps spilled onto walkways, illuminating
those who found more serenity in the cover of darkness than
the bustle and business of the day.
On Bourbon Street, the stench of alcohol pierced the
air. The homeless populated the area. The number of street
performers doubled. Prostitutes shamelessly displayed their
services, and many found themselves lured into their arms,
as if by a siren’s call.
Others found themselves drifting into bars, the heart
of parties, the arms of strangers.
Kaliska sat at the Riverwalk, a place not far from the
French Quarter. It was a better part of New Orleans, over-
looking the Mississippi River.
The Mississippi was beautiful. It was a calm river with
rippling patches of water here and there.
Argue
The wind pulled at her hair, strands of curls falling into
her eyes. She pushed them back as she watched the water
Move.
At night, the city came alive. But the bright, shining city
lights did not block out the stars with as much smog as New
York had. Against the night, the river reflected the stars, pin-
pricks of light dancing on its surface.
A sigh escaped Kaliska's lips as she put her hand on the
cold metal railing. Chance would have loved this, she was sure.
He would have loved Bourbon Street, more than anything.
But try as she might, Kaliska could not summon him. He
was gone, and though she often felt the echo of his laughter
against the wind and caught glimpses of his bright smile out of
the corners of her eyes every so often, she could not deny that
he was gone.
So Kaliska closed her eyes. They had always wanted to
come to New Orleans together, the City of Lights. And so Ka-
liska would make that happen. Because even though Chance
was dead, a piece of his soul remained in her heart. And that
was real.
30
Of
Mosaic
“Kali.”
Kaliska opened her eyes. The boy that stood before her
was young, no more than seventeen, whereas Kaliska had be-
come a woman now in her late twenties. The smile he gave her
was just as she remembered. Charming and carefree, a smile
that said he had no fear of getting into trouble if it meant he'd
had fun doing it.
“Let's go see New Orleans, yeah?”
Kaliska put her hands on the wheels of her chair and
pulled away from the railing. “Why do | have the feeling you're
not supposed to be here?”
Chance rubbed the back of his neck, his smile faltering.
“Who's to say | am here? I'm part of you. Always.”
So Kaliska had managed to pull that piece of Chance—
that remnant of his soul—from her own. She returned his smile.
“Alright. Let's go to the French Quarter.”
And so they went. Chance walked by Kaliska as she
wheeled herself. The lights from the stars, the skyscrapers,
and the city spilled over them, creating a mosaic upon their
skin as they walked into the night. For once, the grief that Kalis-
Argue
ka carried with her had lifted.
It is the same, Kaliska thought. You can lose fuends, fam-
ily—you can be pushed away, rejected, ov simply abandoned,
intentionally 01 net, but you can alse have them taken from you.
Death takes many founs. The hand of Death is indifferent. But i
is the same. Loss ts loss. But you cannot call tt loss without there
having once been love.
And é is that love that gives us the strength to endure. Tt is
that love that allows us to go
on without cur losses.
Because loss ts loss. But love is strength.
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Mosaic
An Old Meas and thg Muse
Gavannaly Thempgor
She was crazy, that girl She was passionate and mean. She
was driven. | only knew this girl for a short time, but in that time,
| was changed, utterly and indefinitely.
| saw so much of her that year. The year | turned 17. | remem-
ber the first time | saw her standing next to a pile of books.
She was unusual in her appearance, and she struck me as odd:
an unconventional beauty. | didn’t speak to her that first day
nor the second nor third. She had a way of intimidating almost
everyone, and it wasn't because of the way she looked. She
intimidated people with the way she held herself and the aura
of her person. Even though I'd never spoken to her, | knew she
didn't suffer from a meek disposition.
| was young and | came to think of myself as in love with that
girl. Though I'd never spoken to her, | knew she was different.
When | finally did bring myself to say hello, | was not disap-
pointed in the way she raised a brow and replied tersely. | smile
to myself now, remembering how odd we found one another.
Had we not a mutual love for literature, | would not have stood
Argue
a chance in winning her affections, platonic ones at that. | felt
gifted by her presence. She was a rare kind of soul. She always
said she had a sense of nostalgia for things she'd never known.
She was often lost in thought, never caring if she unintention-
ally ignored someone. | was only ever brave enough to ask her
what she was thinking once. Her reply made me realize that
she was a three-dimensional type of person. She knew the dif-
ference between waking and dreaming, but she always pre-
ferred one over the other.
| think | did love that girl. That girl with the sharp tongue, gifted
to her by time and pain. She was real and not without flaw. She
was broken in many ways but whole in so many others. The
trength she possessed was hard-won. She wasn't impartial to
the suffering of others, but she had so much pain of her own.
| learned so much about that girl and at the same time, nothing
at all. She was a mystery and an open book in one. | knew of
her suffering but only that she had suffered. | knew her without
really knowing her, and | was okay with that. She wanted all the
things she had never had. For most this meant bitterness and
jealousy, but for her it was only the dull ache for what could
have been.
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Mosaic
When | think of her now, | wonder if she really was just a girl
or something else altogether. By now, her face isn't as easy to
recall, and I'm no longer looking for it in crowds. The days with-
out her turned to years, and now it's been decades. She disap-
peared just as quickly as she appeared. Yet | still feel pride in
having known someone like her. She was phantom-like, and it
made her hat much more otherworldly.
| was changed in many ways by this wonderfully strange girl.
| still find myself thinking of her when | need inspiration for a
story, an old man and his muse.
Argue
Bodice of Water
Cheramie Keavlly
Her hands were so pale under the water. How long had
she been sitting here, keeping her fingers tangled in dark brown
hair? Bubbles had stopped popping on the water's surface so
long ago, but she couldn't bring herself to let go. To see those
delicate honey-toned faces without their rosy cheeks, their lips
stained pale blue.
She sobbed, pulling her shivering hands to her chest,
the sound caught in her throat. Oh God, what had she done?
Her thoughts spun, picking away at the last bits of her linger-
ing anger like starving vultures. What had she done? The limp
bodies of her precious little ones cried for comfort that she
could no longer give. What had she done?
She screamed into the night air, an animalistic sound
that even set the moon off-balance. What kind of mother...
What kind of monster could have done what she did? She was
the one true solace of her sweet babes, and she had become
their one true demise. They were her last loves, the lights of her
heart, but now, she was truly and utterly alone, her sunshine
gone. No more days full of play or songs sung by sweet sopra-
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Mosaic
no voices not yet grown into their own.
End é.
You desewe to end tt.
The voice spoke from somewhere within herself, just a
shadow of a thing. But it grew, and it grew, filled her empty
husk with screams.
You need to end tt.
She dug her cold fingers into the solid earth around her,
trying to grab hold of some form of reality. The voice wasn't
real. It wasn't real. This was a dream, and she'd wake up in the
morning to sunlight streaming through her window.
End a now.
She choked back a cry, dragging her tired body to the
dark water, the only light coming from the moon and dull stars
above. The ground grew soft as she got closer and closer,
warm dirt already laying claim to her angels.
Keep going.
She brought herself to stand on shaky legs, her dress
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stained with dark earth and mucky water. Her steps were slow,
and the river opened its arms out to her, accepting each step
as if it was welcoming her home. Each step took her farther,
deeper, colder, and the voice rung like a drum inside her head.
End ¢.
She let herself fall backwards, closing her eyes against
the black sky. The water enveloped her, pulling her closer and
closer to whatever awaited her on the other side of the deep
blue.
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The Game Warden
Hannah, Werley
The tall, gruff man strode between the crowded jail cells. Nor-
mally, he didn't like to project how he felt. The prisoners could
see it after all, but today, the man allowed himself a slight,
crooked grin. Today, he finally caught the big one— Today,
well, today was probably going to be the best day of the war-
den's life—aside from getting married, having two kids, and
winning that fishing tournament a couple years back, but you
know What | mean.
The warden glared at the prisoners as he walked by, daring
them to ruin his good mood. They didn't. But then again, this
wasn't an ordinary prison. No, in Hasbro State Penitentiary, the
kind of criminals that were locked within these concrete walls
were those whose criminal offenses violated the sanctity of the
humble board game. You've got your basic charges of loaded
dice and counting cards, leading up to one of the most heinous
crimes of all: table-flipping. While this may seem ridiculous at
first, ask yourself how many times a Twister match becomes
twisted, when Risk has become far too risky, or when Opera-
tion lands you in the emergency room. Clearly, this commune
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of crazed criminals need a prison all their own.
As the warden walked, the faces of the various prisoners
peered through their bars. From the looks on their faces, most
of the other inmates already knew that their boss’ days of dan-
gerous delinquency had caught up with him. A few notable
faces stood out to the warden. There were the quadruplets
that made up the Hippo gang, their hunger for power proving
to be their inevitable downfall. After them was the unsavory
Lord Licorice, a bitter man who turned to crime after the sweet
taste of victory was taken away from him one too many times.
Colonel Mustard shot the warden a dirty look, most likely imag-
ining bludgeoning him with a candlestick or a wrench. The col-
onel was the boss’ right hand man and was arrested at about
the same time. And to think, the conviction would've been a
trivial pursuit if the detectives on the case weren't able to suc-
cessfully lay their mouse trap for the boss to fall into. But as
clever and conniving as his enemy was, everyone slips down
the chute eventually.
Finally, the warden reached his destination: solitary confine-
ment. Inside, the most dangerous and notorious game-related
criminal sat, and the warden was excited to rub his victory in
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his face.
“Well well, well— it’s about damn time you finally got caught,”
The warden chuckled as he opened the door and stepped
through.
At hearing the warden's voice, the prisoner turned. He was
an older man with a bushy white mustache and an old timey
striped prison uniform—which was strange considering that
the penitentiary issued orange jumpsuits to its inmates. Even
stranger, he was also equipped with a large ball and chain
strapped to his foot which hadn't been used in decades.
Despite being in arguably the worst cell imaginable, the pris-
oner smiled back confidently at the warden, as if he was the
one in charge.
“Gloat all you want, Parker. I'll be out of here and back to my
Illinois Avenue safe house in no time.” He paused to snicker,
“Or did you forget just exactly how much power | have over this
board?”
Then, the warden did something surprising. He let out a genu-
ine laugh. Understandably, this caught the prisoner off-guard
and put a pause in his cocky facade.
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“Ohh no, Pennybags— Not this time,” the warden bellowed. “All
your little ‘get out of jail free cards’ are gone. This time you
won't be able to trade or buy your way out. We gota confession
that'll be sure to bankrupt you once and for all. Don't even think
about complaining to the Community Chest or trying to appeal
for another Chance. It’s over.” The warden gestured to the drab
walls of the lonely cell with his unsettling smile, “You're on my
property now! And it’s time to pay up!" He laughed again, this
time letting his voice eek out every last bit of malice the war-
den felt for his archenemy.
Once he was satisfied, the warden turned and began to stride
out of the cell door. He stood in the doorway for a moment be-
fore turning back and sneering, “Go directly to jail. Do not pass
go, and do not collect $200." Desperately, in an attempt to
once again gain control over his situation, Pennybags shouted,
“Don't patronize me! | know my Magie rights! Parker!” But it was
far too late for that now. All Pennybags could do was watch
with the dawning realization that this was it, the end of his mo-
nopolistic monetary mania. The warden had finally caught him,
and his game was finally over.
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folding onle Graltered Nlemorter 2Y hace
Uplapariagee
She holds onto the hope that every other time something like
this has happened, it has all worked out just fine. Every time
the fear of what is going on is not quite explainable can van-
ish when it can be fine without being explained. Sometimes it
takes longer than others for it to all fall back into place and feel
normal.
She holds onto the phone awaiting information that could make
or break her future. There is so much already unknown about
the future, and now this is being added on as well? She looks
around to make sure no one is looking as she checks her texts.
She holds onto her steering wheel as the truth sets in. May-
be this isn't like every other time. What does that even mean?
What part of this is normal? White knuckles take over her fo-
cus rather than the road in front of her. What's the speed limit?
Does that matter at a time like this? This drive has never been
so long.
She holds onto her family member's hand as she takes in the
scene around her. Everything is so crisp, and the smell shouldn't
be this familiar. This doesn't feel like all the other times she has
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stood in this place. There are more faces around. Is the room
getting smaller, or are we just shoving more people in here like
sardines?
She holds onto the chair handles as strangers come and ask
her about her life. They have never asked before. What about
this situation makes them think it’s okay for them to ask now?
The feeling of being alone has clouded her brain. She feels
small.
She holds onto the one person's hand that could make this all
better. They aren't holding back. Some time alone would be
nice, but her presence is oh-so important to those around her.
At least that’s what she's told. She holds onto old jokes and all
of the memories that have suddenly flooded her mind. This is
the first time she hasn't felt cloudy in the head.
She holds onto the end of the bed as everyone stands around
exchanging glances. Why isn't there an instruction manual for
this moment? Every sound is louder in this moment than they
have ever been.
She holds onto shoes on the floor of Target. What kind of shoes
is she expected to wear? Where was the money for these
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shoes going to come from? Her friends urge her to get up and
get to the car. Don't worry about the shoes. Leave them. It’s not
important.
She holds onto her best friend's hand as the unthinkable is
happening. All she can think of is how many people are here.
She feels pushed aside, but she doesn't have enough willoow-
er to force herself back to the middle where she was told she
belongs. Is her makeup holding up? She didn't sleep the night
before. The shoes she left on the floor of target were surely
more comfortable than these.
She holds onto his t-shirt. The passage of time speeds and
slows, and every moment holds a different emotion than the
last. There are pieces of emotion everywhere. Isn't that ac-
ceptable though? These emotions are normal; at least that’s
what they are saying. What about a shattered reality is normal?
She holds onto the memories now. Most are happy. Some are
blurry. Maybe the tears are clouding them. No. She's not crying
anymore. He wouldn't have wanted that. He would've wanted
her to fit the pieces of her future together. He would've assured
her that her picture would not have matched anyone else's.
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Clethiogpin Seren
Kubery Silty
They were always inseparable, even when they weren't to-
gether, they thought about each other, what the other person
was wanting for lunch, if they were thirsty, all the things typical
college couples did. When she dyed her hair bright orange,
he already knew because he claimed he felt her hair change
to the color of fires from deep inside the earth's core. When
he bought a surprise birthday gift for her last fall, she said she
already knew because shed been secretly wanting it for the
longest and that because of their bond, of course he'd know.
When Thanksgiving came around, the two didn't go
home to either’s parents. Instead, they stayed in their dorm
room and ate ramen noodles and hot dogs sliced lengthwise.
He even surprised her with a jar of pickle spears. She held
his hand very tight that night, felt the powers of the universe.
Christmas came, and they didn't celebrate it because they
decided that holidays like Christmas were too religious and
sometimes, not religious enough. Valentine's Day was a cash
cow, hungry for depressed couples and even more depressed
singles to try and attempt to be happy with each other. Easter,
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of course, was about how they nailed a rabbit to a cross and
that rabbit shits out eggs, so they decided to grab McDonald's
the night before and go home to gorge. That's where the story
begins and sort of ends, the way a friend tells a story and has
no resolution whatsoever, yet you still listened to it anyway.
The couple was happy, of course, never a sad moment
in their lives, and they knew each other too much to know
when the other was sad. He decided to actually try to apply
himself to his school work about three months too late into his
third-year spring semester. She had given up by this point and
decided it'd be best to just quit school and start her own busi-
ness of knitting things that weren't for babies. They roamed the
campus with each other like they were two hawks preparing
to feast upon whatever piece of conversation they became in-
volved in. There was a large array of friends, from those book
nerds who philosophize about things that don't apply to them
at all to those drunk friends who continuously ask if you have
weed or know someone who has weed. The couple moved
from friend group to friend group, not knowing where they
wanted to be, just knowing that it wasn't at this place or that
place.
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No one seemed to care about the couple all that much,
treated them as an annoyance and ignored them mostly, as
people often do. There were times when they felt like they
were being ignored, of course, especially by the faculty. He
failed his classes for the spring but seemed to not care about
it because there was no point to school if school was a capital-
ist industry, breeding sheep to be slaughtered by an unstable
government and worthless jobs. His advisor, a lady who tried
her best to keep her composure when he entered the room,
told him that if he planned to graduate by next May, he'd need
to do summer courses. He disagreed with the help of his girl-
friend's presence in his head. She held his hand very tightly
the night he learned he failed his classes, all the pressure of a
hurricane forced against her skin.
She would often recite poetry to him in the middle of
the night, words of some unknown poet, some person that had
died and been forgotten, and he'd grab her hair between his
fingers and rub like it was a match needing to be extinguished.
With him no longer in school, they felt they could spend all
the time in the world with one another, no more separation.
They would continue to have feelings for each other and went
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on with their lives. They mostly slept in, the curtains drawn, no
light except the occasional phone screen glimmer, and ate
mostly leftovers from other leftovers.
It was in late May when he noticed the horrible smell.
It awoke him in the middle of the night, and he tried to find
it while she slept naked. He turned over the small table be-
side the bed, thinking it was a dead rat, went to the bathroom
because he thought he forgot to flush the toilet, went to the
kitchen because he thought it was some trash that had been
piling up by the door. He was wrong on all accounts. The smell
stuck with him anywhere he went, any part of the house. When
he opened the front door to get some fresh air, he was hit with
a powerful wave of fresh air, but still the traces of that odor
followed him outside. He cursed loudly and she awoke on the
mattress.
She rushed to him, asking him what was wrong, and he
nearly gagged when she got near him. She continuously tried
to grab on to him, hug him, hold him, but he pushed her away
and turned around. She started crying, wanting to know what
was wrong with him, why she was being rejected like this, why
he was outside, why all the lights were on in the house, why the
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table was turned over, why he's sweating, why he's gagging,
What the hell was wrong with everything. He looked at her, and
she knew then, because of course she'd know, and ran back
to the bedroom and slammed the door, her eyes dripping with
tears.
He heard the shower turn on and her crying getting
louder as he sat on the couch, a clothespin to his nose. He
turned on the television and started watching whatever was
on, some cooking show about boiling crawfish in Tennessee,
some fashion show about how this anklet would look well with
that outfit, $499.99, some hunting show where the man had a
limp and was tracking a bear, some cop show where the victim
was killed using a syringe full of cough syrup. He tried to find
comfort in something on the television, but it bored him too
much, and then the smell became a taste in the air. It was me-
tallic and putrid, sort of like rotten bananas or bad milk, maybe
both mixed. He gagged on the smell and nearly threw up in the
living room. He held his head between his legs and breathed
heavily and still, the taste filled his mouth.
He heard the shower turn off, and she came out, still na-
ked. She looked at him and asked if she was okay now, if the
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smell had disappeared this time, but when she came into the
room and did the swirlin front of the TV, he threw up what was
in his stomach onto the floor, the pile spreading around in the
carpet. She screamed and started crying again, ranting about
how he didn't love her anymore, how he was being an idiot,
how the carpet would be stained with bile because of him.
He looked up at her, his own eyes watery with pain, and
saw her naked body in front of the TV. It disgusted him, made
him feel so sick to his stomach, made him want to eat the vomit
already on the floor, made him want to throw up again. And
he did just that, another round of throwing up, and this time
the bile turned bloody, the stomach juices had started becom-
ing pieces of flesh, those frightful body-building blocks turned
up on the floor. She screamed at him that he was repulsed by
her, that she was just an ugly nothingness, that she was the
problem to all his problems, that she was the pressure she felt
when they held hands.
All the nagging hit his eardrums hard, and they began
to ring loudly, a sound so high-pitched it scared him. It made
him feel pain in the front of his brain, and he vomited again, this
time he felt motion sickness while doing it. He threw up and
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threw up and threw up. The bloody fragments of his stomach
lining lie on the floor around the bloody heap of what food and
acid his stomach held. He closed his eyes, but when he did
that, he just could see her body again, and he wretched and
threw up and dry heaved and vomited.
She screamed and yelled and cried and shrieked and
threatened to call the police, but she never did because she
was too much in shock, too much in the moment, too much
involved in all the pain he was feeling because she could feel
that stuff too without doing it. She told him to hold on, to just
be patient as she processed what was happening, so she can
figure out if he’s repulsed by her, or if he's sick, or if he's dying.
She ran over and touched his back, her fingers pressing hard
against it.
When she did that, he just began losing all the insides of
his body onto the floor. His stomach plopped out with a slushy
noise as the intestines followed and uncoiled into
a coil, then came the rest of his internal organs: his esopha-
gus, his lungs, his spleen, his liver, his bladder, his one kidney
he was born with, his pancreas, his gallbladder, his thyroid, his
lymph nodes, his blood vessels, his cartilage, his brain, his tes-
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tes, his bones, and then, with a loud thud, his heart fell out of
his mouth.
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Pick, Me
Caleb Howell
We were scattered in fields and meadows like sentient parti-
cles of frozen water, lying flat in sheets on beds of grass and
wintry meaning. The people grew like human allium under
trees and through rocks and silt. Chlorophyll arms stretched
outwards towards beaming sun and radiant heat like children
reaching for their mothers’ arms. Noses were disguised by hon-
eybees and human pollen dropping like snowfall from weary
eyelashes on round, gold faces. And | wondered, sitting in that
field, whether it was my time today.
Who is to say what happens when, hopefully, omnibe-
nevolent petaled rings shift foliage with every step and drop
down to pluck human waists from the field? What gods and
goddesses armed with luxurious leaves descend upon unsus-
pecting humanity? What form do they take, and what colors do
they sprout?
| stood tall that day and remained still, thinking, “If they
choose discriminately, it is better to stand among the thou-
sands and to look as unremarkable as possible.” We place
great hope in the possibility of kind hearts pulsing ichor and
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xylem. | cannot help but feel dread, though. Dread and hope. |
do not know what happens after these titans twist anguished
stems and pluck green torsos from blessed soil. | heard that we
share limited time in the sun as a beautiful bouquet; families
and generations of genets and ramets cloistered from nature
provide the perfect narrative for the end of days. | stand among
many in the field who desire the reprieve of being plucked.
Many would give anything for that moment of pain and then
saturation of colors and smells in a vase of loved ones. A vase
ora tomb. ! want so desperately to fling myself into this contin-
gency. But | cannot.
lam not sure if |am afraid of the pain or something else:
not being remembered in the space | previously called home
or the pointlessness of my time in the field. We grow until we
cannot, or we are harvested for something hopefully more.
One last time of significance is all | wish for myself. It is the only
thing that qualifies my time here, standing amid my cousins. It
is the reward of death. How can | hope for oblivion?
How absurd is life without purpose? And how purpose-
ful is it to adorn someone's home? How can | desire to be just
another pretty thing that wilts away and is discarded? How can
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| continue to be once | relegate myself to being one among
many? A blur of white and yellow? A
memory?
| stand straight up and feel my betrayal: the betrayal of
commonality. | hope to be singular but not to be singled out.
If my petals are too fragrant, my colors too pure, | will be the
next light to be darkened. The soil which nurtures me calls for
my continuance, but why continue to be? Why continue in a
world which calls you most important at the time of your de-
mise? Why do my cousins not see the unfairness that is reality?
They sway in the breeze and hope to be plucked only to mean
something. Can | not mean something here in the field? | shrug
off the dewdrops and shiver in the face of truth. | call out for
justice to silence. Am | the only one who feels this way?
They came today and trampled dozens of friends to pick
the most colorful and vibrant. Today, | continue to stand in the
field. | was left behind. | stand here another day because | am
one of a thousand. Indiscernible. Invisible. ln my singularity |am
plural. | must continue to find meaning and complexity even
when avoided for being uninteresting. The loam cushions my
head as | lay to rest for another night, but | dream of the reck-
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onings to come. It is a nightmare to not know—not know who is
left, who is most beautiful to arbitrary eyes, how beautiful and
distinctive | am. The grass bends to shield me from nightfall.
In the shadows | am wary of moonlight. | am watched by cos-
mic entities at all times. The silent judgment of greater beings
twists my mind into unbearable confusion.
Why is life worth living if living is the worst part? How |
wish to bloom if only for a moment, to be beautiful and neces-
sary before | am carried away to rot. | crave that day when | can
be the most beautiful flower in the field.
17
Auger
Chiulw Kiger from the Ocean, or w Tale of Verce
Ruberv Smit
- Sonia Greene, H.P. Lovecuaft's Wife
| can recall many instances when | didn't love my husband;
many times he would sit in his chair and speak some form of
truth into existence like he was a god. Or that time he struck his
fist against the table and a small slit opened wide in the wood.
It wasn't untilwe moved homes, two kids later, and a dead dog
in the yard, when | decided that my husband was not the man
| fell in love with. He had become something unrecognizable,
something driven by fear and madness which ate at him in his
sleep.
He used to talk about these grand tentacles stretching down
from the jaw of a beast as big as time itself, green hungering
for the other things that are alive around it. He said he would
have nightmares of the monster, great darkness in the mouth,
where sacred monstrosities await beyond the evil itself, com-
manding followers to enter into the void and become whole.
| think back to our wedding vows, the moment he raised my
veil upwards into the sky and told me he would take care of
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me until the end of time, but | should not have believed him
then. His definition of love was created through pornography
and whiskey sours on weekdays, books that were half finished,
half begun, wearing lazy cotton and moving furniture around
his writing room until he was too tired to even add flesh to the
bones of his stories.
He would say the beast would move in hurried motions yet
was slow and tired at times; cosmos awaited his command and
worlds were to be devoured. He said that this was the most im-
portant thing haunting his dreams and that if he had to go and
find this monster, he would find it in some bar, some writer hole
of pitiful men hungry for answers, the places where the beast
might be waiting for him.
| realize now, as he is gone from this world into that dark other,
that he can no longer hunt for something that is found, that
time hurries onward for the rest of us, sleepless nights of lone-
liness and hearts aching for what has been Lost. | do not shame
myself for making this decision for the betterment of myself
and for the children, but a decision had to be made all the
same. And this is how the monster entered our world through
cramped page and bloodied handwriting, birthed by
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a man of reason and insanity, cast among the lot and left out
there to await the beast.
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Te Tings Tay Taught pac
Mascalo, Broursard,
Her mother taught her that there is a way to do things.
There is a way to cook food. She always rinses the meat at
least five times before doing the same to the rice. Adding salt
and butter to the rice, she lets the rice pot do its job. The sea-
soning of the meat follows: first the Tony's, then cayenne pep-
per, then garlic powder—something extra if she’s in the mood.
Slaving away over a hot stove, doing five tasks simultaneously
and it will still come out perfect. Making sure to cut the onions
without a remedy nearby, so the tears that fall will be mistaken
for a chemical reaction.
There is a way to wash dishes. She rinses the dishes before-
hand, making sure they won't ruin the water before the process
is complete. She will wash the sink with hot water and soap
before filling it up again. The water must be scorching hot be-
fore adding dishwashing liquid and mixing it in, making sure
the soap is bubbly enough to last. She will scrub and scrub:
the cups twice, the bowls three times, and if they are really
stained, four. She will reach for a mug that is no longer there.
Pots are scrubbed until her hands are red and pruny; no matter
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how long she spends trying to wipe away the black stains, they
do not fade. She cleans, she scrubs, she mops the floor until
she sees her reflection in the tile. Make sure to get inside every
crevice, or it isn't clean, isn’t complete. Everything must look
nice and clean on the outside. She still aches.
There is a way to take pictures: be the subject, or be the pho-
tographer. She prefers being behind the camera, the one tak-
ing the shots, the one saying, say cheese, the one who doesn't
have to pretend to smile on the other side of the lens. She loves
to gather us around for a family picture. This Easter it won't be
the same. There will be someone missing from the picture.
There is a way to avoid the topic. There will be an empty space
in the booth, and they'll pretend not to notice. There will be
more leftovers than there ever were. There will be one less
hug and kiss goodnight.
There is a way to tell children that their father has moved out of
the house. Keep it a secret until he tells them himself. Instead
of him coming clean, a boy on the bus will tell them he lives in
another town, because in small towns everyone will know your
business, even when they do not know you. They will deny it
and ask her why the boy would come up with such a thing.
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Then, and only then, will she tell them the truth. That daddy
packed his things two weeks ago, and he has only been home
after school to see his children. That he made it so they would
never know the difference between a workaholic and an ab-
sent father because those stories are pretty damn close.
Her father taught her that there is a way to do things.
There is a way to be successful. Work hard. Provide for your
family. Do everything you can. Sometimes work will take you
away from your family, but it's okay—they'll understand.
There is a way to be there without being there. Make every
basketball game, every football game, every track meet. Buy
presents for the birthdays and the holidays—chocolate’s on
Valentine's Day. Be there for the big things and hope they don't
sweat the small stuff.
There is a way to explain why a man left his home, why a hus-
band left his wife, why a father would leave his children. When
asked by his daughter why he left he will avoid her eyes while
lying between his teeth. Soew bullshit about money and bills
becoming too much. Discuss how the state of a house, mon-
etary things, temporary things could drive him to make such a
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decision. He will make sure to be completely ignorant of how
selfish he sounds. Do not notice the tears in her eyes or ignore
them. She will say okay, she will hug him and say she loves
him, all the while questioning every decision she has made up
to that point. She will wonder if she could've done anything to
change it. She will wonder why daddy couldn't look her in the
eyes, Why he would choose to lie, and she won't be able to de-
cide which one is worse. Because money can be worked out, a
house can be rebuilt, but trust goes deep. It's not easy to gain,
and it's even harder, if not impossible, to get back.
There is a way to lose a daughter's trust. There is a way to
break a daughter's heart. A father can cheat on a mother. De-
cide he doesn't want to stay with her anymore. Move out of the
house and barely see his children. When he does, he will be
sure to mess with her mother’s mind because isn't that what
sad excuses for men do. Make her mother cry. Hurt the woman
who raised her with his actions, with a paragraph, with a sen-
tence, with ten words. That mother will lay next to her daugh-
ter, but instead of comforting, she will be the one who is being
comforted. She will apologize for being hurt, for being sad, for
being angry, for being emotional. She will apologize for things
(ay
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that will never need an apology. She will apologize for being
human. This daughter will say that it's okay. Years will pass be-
fore the thought of forgiveness doesn't make her flinch.
This is the first time her mother has ever cried in her arms, and
she will cry, too.
Mosaic
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Leyla Easley
Arguir
2Y Plawe
E.DAWSON
182
133
8” Place
Mosaic
Live Music
Archive
Librivox
Free Audio
Metropolitan Museum
Cleveland
Museum of Art
Internet
Arcade
Console Living Room
Open Library
American
Libraries
TV News
Understanding
9/11